“That’s ‘Jake,’” was Redmond’s comment, a moment later, “no use trying fly-fishing to-day, though, Yorkey—­too bright.  We’d better fish deep.  Here, you get the rods all fixed up, and catch some grasshoppers, and I’ll chase out in the pasture and run the horses in.”

Some half an hour later found them trudging down the long slope below the detachment that led to the nearest point of the Bow River.  Here the river described a sharp bend southward for some distance, ere resuming its easterly course.  Arriving thither, they fished for awhile in blissful content; their minds for the time-being devoid of aught save the sport of Old Izaak.  Picking likely spots for deep casts, they meandered slowly down-stream, keeping about twenty yards apart.  At intervals, their piscatorial efforts were rewarded with success.  Four fine “two-pounders” of the “Cut-Throat” species had fallen to Yorke’s rod—­three to Redmond’s.  Then, for a time the fish ceased to bite.

“Here!” said Yorke suddenly.  “I’m getting fed up with this!  I can’t get a touch.  There’s a big hole farther down, just up above Gully’s place.  Let’s try it!  He and I pulled some good ’uns out of there, last year.”

Eventually they reached their objective.  At this point the force of the current had gradually, with the years, scooped out a large, semicircular portion of the shelving bank.  Also, a spit of gravel-bar, jutting far out into the water, had stranded a small boom of logs and drift-wood; the whole constituting a veritable breakwater that only a charge of dynamite could have shifted.  In the shelter of this and the hollowed-out bank, a huge, slow eddy of water had formed, apparently of great depth.

As Yorke had advertised it—­it did look like a likely kind of a hole for big trout.  “You wouldn’t think it,” said he now, “but there’s twenty feet of water in that pot hole.”  He put down his rod and slowly began to fill his pipe.  “You can have first shot at it, Red,” he remarked, “I’ll be the unselfish big brother.  You ought to land a good ’un out of there.  Aha! what’d I tell you?”

Redmond’s gut “leader” had barely sunk below the surface when he felt the thrilling, jarring strike of an unmistakably heavy fish.  The tried, splendid “green-heart” rod he was using described a pulsating arc under the strain.  He turned to Yorke gleefully.  “By gum! old thing, I’ve sure got one this time,” he said, “bet you he’s ten pound if he’s an ounce.  Hope the line’ll hold!”

Simultaneously they uttered an excited exclamation, as a huge, silvery body darted to the surface, threshed the water for the fraction of a second, and then dived.

“Look out!” cried Yorke.  “Give him line, Red, give him line!  Play him careful now, or you’ll lose him!”

The reel screeched, as Redmond let the fish run.  Then—­without warning—­the line slacked and the rod straightened.  George, giving vent to a dismayed oath, reeled in until the line tautened again, and the point of the rod dipped.